


when I get so low it takes me higher

by findyourfortunefalling



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Date Rape Drug/Roofies, Dumpster Bagel: Do Not Eat, F/F, F/M, Masturbation, Rough Sex, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-08-19 23:48:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20218294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/findyourfortunefalling/pseuds/findyourfortunefalling
Summary: Allison's bedroom at the manor has thick, heavy curtains to block the sun coming in first thing in the morning. She relies on an alarm clock, and the noises of Luther clumping around, to make sure she wakes up on time. The sun in her eyes, then, is the first clue that she's not in her bedroom. The second is the scratchy wool blanket draped over her, and the third is the floor, which she hits with a thump as she rolls over, and falls off the couch."Ow," says Allison, and then, much more quietly, "ow."





	when I get so low it takes me higher

**Author's Note:**

> This is the nastiest thing I've ever written. I wish I was ashamed of myself, but... ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯. This is a dumpster bagel; you found it in a dumpster. It's going to taste like dumpster. I'm sorry. Title from Carly Rae Jepsen's "Too Much".
> 
> (that said, if there's anything you feel I should have tagged for that I haven't, please let me know!)

Allison's bedroom at the manor has thick, heavy curtains to block the sun coming in first thing in the morning. She relies on an alarm clock, and the noises of Luther clumping around, to make sure she wakes up on time. The sun in her eyes, then, is the first clue that she's not in her bedroom. The second is the scratchy wool blanket draped over her, and the third is the floor, which she hits with a thump as she rolls over, and falls off the couch.

"Ow," says Allison, and then, much more quietly, "_ow_."

God, she feels _wretched_. The sun feels like knives in her corneas, and even the sound of her own voice is excruciating in her ears. She hasn't had a hangover this bad in _years_.

"Good morning," says Vanya, somewhere behind her.

"Shh," says Allison, flapping a hand. Moving even that much hurts. "No noise. Noise bad."

"Sorry," says Vanya, in an exaggerated whisper. "You're really feeling it, huh?"

"Yeah." Allison breathes out, clambering back onto the couch. "I feel really- ow," she says. She hadn't noticed, lying on the floor, but her cunt throbs when she sits, a deep ache. She shifts, trying to get comfortable, but her ass hurts, too. That's... strange.

Vanya comes over, all but tip-toeing to keep her footsteps quiet, and hands her a cup of coffee. Allison takes it gratefully, cradling it to her chest. "Must have been a big one, huh?"

Allison blinks, and shifts again. She's _really_ sore- she's never felt like this, not even after her dalliance with that porn star back in California, and he was really something. "Sorry?"

"You must have had a big night, I mean," Vanya says, still whispering. She looks much too bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, considering she and Allison-

"Wasn't I out with you?" Allison sips at her coffee. It's perfect; slightly too hot, just a touch of cream. "Yay sisters drinks?"

"Well, that was the idea," says Vanya, a little ruefully. "Then you disappeared, and I couldn't find you, so I just came home. You got in later, really out of it. I figured you'd gone home with someone, now you and Luther aren't..." She coughs delicately.

"We're not... not," says Allison, still wincing. "We’re... taking things slow. I really went off with some guy?"

"You don't remember?" There's a funny look on Vanya's face. Then again, with how hard Allison's squinting to block out the light, it could be nothing.

"I barely remember meeting _you_," Allison admits. "But I must have gone home with someone, because-" She shifts again. Every position hurts, and now she's slightly more awake, she's pretty sure she's not wearing panties.

"Right," says Vanya, stifling a smile in her coffee. "A good time, then?"

Allison takes another sip of coffee. It's helping to clear the nasty taste out of her mouth. It’s _really_ nasty; the funk of yesterday's drinks, and another, muskier taste she can't quite identify, but which seems oddly familiar. "I guess so."

Once the coffee kicks in, Allison drags herself off the couch and into Vanya's bathroom to shower. With her clothes off, she's a mess. There are hickeys all over the soft undersides of her tits, dark purple and red, and some on the insides of her thighs, too. She presses her fingers to them, wincing.

So she went home with some guy, leaving Vanya at the bar alone, had what feels like very athletic sex with him and then stumbled back here without even getting his number. That's not like her. And the soreness in her ass, too, that's weird- she doesn't do anal, never has. It doesn't hurt like she imagines it would if this mystery man had forced himself inside her, but she feels tender, stretched, and she doesn't remember agreeing to anything like that. She doesn't remember any of it.

She turns the shower on, and roots through the caddy for shower gel. Her hair's a disaster, too, like someone's had their fingers in it, but there's no fixing that now. All Vanya's products are for white girl hair. She'll take a nice hot shower, wash the night off, and fix up her hair when she gets home. When she pops the lid of the shower gel, though, there’s something about the smell that makes her stomach turn over, and she has to hurry through washing herself.

Once she’s clean and has her clothes back on- she still can’t find her panties- she comes back out to the living room. Vanya’s sitting at the kitchen table, staring into her empty coffee cup. “Vanya?” she says, and Vanya jumps a little, then smiles.

“Hey. I was wondering if you had time to get breakfast,” Vanya asks, a little shyly.

“Uh, sure,” says Allison, pulling on a shoe- how did they get all the way over by the fireplace?- and trying to unobtrusively peek under the couch, in case that’s where her panties went. “Nothing too heavy, though.”

“No, of course,” says Vanya, getting up and putting her mug in the sink. “I was just thinking pastry, from that new bakery down the street. Nothing that’ll batter your insides too badly.”

Allison doesn’t drop her other shoe, but it’s close.

*

After breakfast, Vanya has to get to practice (she’s with a new orchestra, now, and has solemnly promised to never blow up the moon again) so they say goodbye on the street, and Allison catches a cab home. The ache between her legs has subsided enough that walking’s fine, but she’s still commando under her skirt, and she doesn’t want to take any more unnecessary risks.

Allison gets home, and hurries up to her room, managing to make it there unobserved. She gets out her products for fixing her hair, arranging them on her vanity, and then sits down very hard on her bed when the thought pops into her mind in big pink letters: _I think I was drugged last night._

She tries saying it out loud, to see if it sounds different, but her voice fails halfway through ‘drugged’, and she can’t get it out. It would explain a lot. Why she went off with some random guy; why she did stuff she would never normally agree to, especially with a stranger; why she still feels stiff and lethargic, even though she usually doesn’t get hangovers this badly. She should go to a hospital. She should go to the police.

There’s a knock on the door. “It’s open,” she says, before she can think better of it.

The door opens, and Luther peeks around it. “Hey,” he says. “Thought I heard you come in. How was sisters drinks?”

Allison blinks. A lot more thoughts happen very quickly, one on top of another: _If I tell Luther about this, he'll freak out, and I'll have to comfort him, and if I have to comfort him I'll scream. If I go to the police or to the hospital, I’ll have to rumor people to stop this ending up in the papers, and I can't rumor people because I'm not doing that anymore. If this ends up in the papers, people will find out. Patrick will find out. Claire might find out._

"I ended up crashing on Vanya's couch," is what comes out of her mouth. "We got breakfast this morning."

"I was gonna ask if you'd eaten. Grace saved you a plate," says Luther. His reproach is so gentle, it makes Allison's eyes sting with the beginnings of tears, and she hopes her face isn't giving anything away. "Will you be in for lunch?"

"If I can stomach the idea of food by then," says Allison honestly.

He gives her a fond little smile. "I'll let her know. I'm going to be up in the study if you need anything."

"Thanks, but it's not my first hangover," says Allison. She's almost entirely sure her face is straight.

When he's gone, she locks the door, takes her clothes off, and looks herself over in the mirror. The tiny, toothpaste-specked mirror in Vanya's bathroom hadn't been much help, but in full-length view, the marks look even more lurid. Her nipples are tender, like they've been sucked and bitten, but that's as high as the marks go; nothing that'll show above a reasonably modest neckline. No hickeys on her neck, where she actually likes to be kissed. The ones on her thighs are darker again; real bite marks, the visible outlines of teeth. A small mouth, it looks like, and sharp canines, and deep bites, intended to hurt. They do hurt, when she presses her fingers to them.

She doesn't let her lovers leave marks like this. She's never let anyone fuck her so hard she could feel it the next day, not even Patrick. She's always thought sex like that- rough sex, painful sex, sex that left bruises- was degrading; that letting a partner debase you that way was for people who didn’t respect themselves. A sick, hot feeling is building in her stomach, and she has to stuff her knuckles in her mouth to stifle the noise that comes up her throat. It’s not a sob, not quite, but close.

She has a horrible feeling that she _liked_ it.

*

The house is quiet, so it's easy to creep down to the medical rooms to swipe arnica ointment and cold packs. A childhood of fighting crime, even with super powers, teaches a person a lot about treating bruises. It's a little sad that Mom still keeps these things stocked, but Allison’s not complaining.

It would be even easier to just rumor them away. She feels the words rise in her throat- _I heard a rumor these bruises weren’t that bad_, or maybe _I heard a rumor I heal really fast_\- but she can’t. That’s how it happens, every time; she lets herself think that terrible, seductive phrase, _just one won’t hurt_, and suddenly she’s back on her bullshit. She’s doing really well, and she’s not going to ruin it over some stupid hickeys.

Applying the ointment hurts, and she’s still got a headache, but in a fresh outfit, with her hair fixed, she looks presentable enough. Allison leaves a note in the kitchen to say she won’t be in for lunch after all, and goes out again.

She gets coffee. She goes for a walk. She buys cigarettes, and smokes three on a bench by the duck pond in the park, one after another. Nobody looks at her. Her big anti-paparazzi sunglasses are a pointless affectation in this city, but she keeps them on anyway, to cut the light. The weirdest part, really, is that, photosensitivity aside, she feels fine. Going out for walks alone to think about her problems was a mainstay of the difficult end of her relationship with Patrick, and she’d thought it might make her feel better, or at least let her feel bad while looking at some ducks. She’d intended to come out, have a discreet cry where none of her interfering siblings could barge in on her, but she feels… fine.

Maybe the reality of what happened hasn’t sunk in. Delayed trauma, or whatever. All she really feels, though, is the deep, satisfied languor of having gotten properly laid, and pissed off that she can’t remember how it happened. That’s probably fucked up- technically, she didn’t get laid, she got _raped_. Sexually assaulted, or something. She should be more upset about this. She shouldn’t feel _good_ afterwards. Some asshole guy slipped her something, fucked her brains out, and… delivered her back to her sister’s apartment?

She frowns. That’s weird, actually. She can’t think why he’d have taken her there. Her driver’s license is California-issue. It lists her address (just Patrick’s address, now) in Santa Monica. If he’d asked her for an address, wouldn’t she have given him the address of the Academy? Maybe he just kicked her out, and she’d walked there. She wishes she could remember.

It takes a cab and a little hunting to find the bar they were in last night. When she gets there, it's open, but almost empty, save for a few people drinking alone. Smiling an open, friendly smile, Allison fronts up to the bar, orders a lime and soda, and has a spectacularly unproductive chat with the bartender. No, they weren't on shift last night. They've been off for a week. Last night's shift lead was someone's cousin's friend from somewhere, and no, the bartender doesn't know when they'll be on again. Yeah, they have security cameras; they don't work, haven't for months. Allison keeps smiling, very carefully not screaming, and she's fairly sure that when she leaves, the bartender just thinks she's an unusually chatty customer.

It’s late enough now that Vanya’s rehearsal should be long over. The walk is even shorter than she'd thought, maybe fifteen minutes via the main streets; probably faster again if she cut down an alley. When she knocks, Vanya answers, looking surprised to see her.

“Uh, hey,” Vanya says, stepping aside to let her in. She doesn’t look tired or hungover at all; she looks great, actually. Allison takes a moment to be uncharitably jealous. “I have a student coming in twenty minutes. Did you forget something this morning?”

“Very funny,” says Allison drily. Vanya flinches, just a little. “About last night- the guy I left with. What did he look like?”

“I didn’t see,” says Vanya, turning away to set up a second music stand, presumably for her student. “You went to get another round, and didn’t come back. Left your purse on the table and everything.”

Allison bites her lip. “You didn’t see him when I got back here?”

“No, there wasn’t a guy with you when you showed up.” Vanya has her violin case open, now, and is fiddling with the bow. “Just you. You were kind of out of it.”

“No kidding,” says Allison. “I’m sorry I ditched you. I don’t normally do stuff like that, you know?"

“Yeah, I know,” says Vanya. "It's alright. Are you going to tell Luther?"

"No," says Allison, too fast and too sharply. "No, I'm not. He doesn't _get_ one night stands." Neither does Allison, usually; sex with strangers is never as satisfying as sex with someone who knows you. "And it's not like I wanted- it's wasn’t exactly a love affair. Just one of those things."

"Just one of those things," Vanya echoes, laying her bow down on the music stand. That funny look is back on her face. God, Vanya probably thinks Allison's such a slut, talking about fucking a random stranger like it's nothing, but Allison can't disabuse her of that without explaining what she thinks happened, and if she thinks Luther would lose it if he knew, that would be nothing to how guilty Vanya would feel. Allison thinks about how she'd feel if this had happened to Vanya instead- if she'd had something put in her drink and woke up bruised and violated, when Allison should have been looking after her- and her stomach turns over.

"Well," says Allison, louder than she means to. "I guess I'd better go. You've got that student coming soon."

"Allison, are you- you're okay, right?" Vanya takes a hesitant step towards her. Allison flashes her a smile, one of her big, bright, movie-star smiles, and retreats towards the door.

"I'm fine. Have fun with your student!" says Allison, and beats a hasty retreat before Vanya can ask her anything else.

*

So that's that. It's lonely, having a secret, but it's not Allison's first. She's just going to have to bottle her feelings up like a good little soldier, and maybe cry on the phone to her therapist about it.

She doesn't, though. That weird, persistent fine-ness doesn't go away; more to the point, not-fineness doesn't materialise. Worse still is when, after a few days, the residual just-had-sex feeling fades, and she she starts thinking about it again, and the emotional weight of it stubbornly doesn’t hit her. Or, rather, it does hit her, but in entirely the wrong way.

She’s _horny_.

Which seems repulsive, frankly. But maybe this is part of her healing process? Maybe she can just jerk off until she feels better. Reconnecting with her sexuality in a safe, healthy environment, or whatever. And the urge doesn't going away, so she waits until everyone else is out of the house, or at least busy in another part of it, locks her door, and gets her vibrator out.

Settling back on the bed, she flicks through her mental sex fantasy Rolodex for something suitable. The stunt coordinator she'd had a thing with on that action movie she'd shot in Budapest. Eric? Eddie? Whatever his name had been, he'd been nice, in and out of bed. She turns the vibrator on, rubbing herself through her panties, getting warmed up. She pictures her crappy little location trailer, and him on top of her, between her legs. All those muscles, moving. He could have carried her, probably; could have shoved her up against a wall, or pinned her to the bed and-

Wait, no. Eric-or-Eddie been sweet, kind of shy, and she'd felt the coiled power in his arms, but he'd never so much as slammed a door in her presence, much less used his strength to push her around. He'd never have- no. She shakes her head as if to shake out the thought, and tries again.

His mouth between her legs. Yes, that was better. He'd been good at oral, had liked doing it, and though she hadn't had enough lovers then to appreciate what a difference that made, she knew now. Turning the vibrator up, she thinks about how his tongue had felt when he'd licked inside her. His hot mouth moving over her thighs, sucking and biting-

No. No. Not biting. She doesn't like that. She likes it soft. She mentally repositions his mouth over her clit, and tries again, imagining her hands in his long hair, strands falling loose from his stupid little ponytail. She'd been too shy back then, but would he have liked it if she'd pulled his hair, ridden his face? What if she'd _sat_ on his face? She's never done that, but she can imagine it, her labia spread by his nose and his tongue.

Her hand moves faster. He would have liked it. He'd have made desperate little noises under her, hands gripping her thighs, licking gracelessly up into her, surrounded by the scent and the taste of her. She can form the feeling of it in her mind so clearly that it's almost not a surprise when she's suddenly picturing herself in his place, head trapped between thighs, imagining her own tongue licking up into someone else's soft, wet pussy. It's definitely a surprise when the image makes her shiver and hump up into the head of the vibrator, suddenly right on the edge of coming.

Allison switches the vibrator off and lays it on the bed next to her, panting. Where did _that_ come from? She's kissed a few girls at parties, but that's it; she's definitely never… done that. Another shiver wracks her body as the phantom sensation swims into focus again in her mind.

Nope, no. She’s not jerking off to that. She takes her panties off- she's definitely warmed up by now- and flicks the vibrator back on, determined to go back to thinking about normal, pleasant, _heterosexual_ sex. She’ll have a normal, pleasant orgasm, maybe two, and go on with her day.

It's no good, though. She can't focus on anything long before it gets weird; the whole horny section of her brain is stubbornly thinking about pussy, with astonishing clarity. Strange, but alright, 30 isn’t too old to be having a sexuality crisis. She could live with that, but on top of that, her brain also seems hell-bent on tossing up scenarios where whoever she's with shoves her around, pulls her hair, and peppers her with pinches and bites and, in one upsetting iteration, slaps, and she can’t stop finding every one of them shamefully thrilling. She has to stop to avoid coming to something depraved so many times she's practically edging herself, and she only knows what edging is because Klaus really doesn't know what constitutes appropriate conversation for family dinner.

"This is ridiculous," she says out loud. The ceiling doesn't reply.

Alright, compromise. She'll just... try thinking about girls, and if she comes doing that, that's fine. Soft hair, warm skin. The one time she properly made out with a girl- a giggly, lipsticky ten minutes on a couch in some producer's mansion with her costar on some dumb teen movie. A pretty black girl with a cute nose, and a much more skilled kisser than Allison. They'd been playing sisters, but that hadn't seemed to matter.

She lets out a frustrated breath. Why can't she jerk off to anything normal? Is it not enough to be sort of dating her brother? She might as well jerk off thinking about _Vanya_-

The image swims unbidden to the top of her brain. Vanya, on her knees between Allison's bare legs. Vanya's mouth on her clit, hot and insistent, just this side of cruel. Vanya's slim fingers in Allison's cunt, curling forward.

She doesn't react fast enough to stop this time, so that's how she comes; hard, gasping, humping inelegantly against the toy, thinking about her sister eating her out. It goes on and on, pulsing through her until her calves cramp with it. When she finally has the presence of mind to turn the vibrator off, she's out of breath, and she's left a huge, mortifying wet spot on the bed.

Well. That could have gone better.

*

It only gets worse from there. In between all the other little factors of her life- the rhythms of the house, her agent sending her scripts, precious minutes on the phone with Claire- she's just dealing with this, now, apparently. Not masturbating doesn't help, it just makes her antsy, and she’s started _dreaming_ about weird sex stuff now, whether she gets off or not.

Luther’s being kind, too. Of course, he has no idea anything’s happened, he’s just… like that. He just thinks they’re taking their relationship slowly, after the honeymoon period, so to speak, after averting the apocalypse, and he’s being respectful.

That’s what I need, she thinks, watching him over her coffee cup at breakfast. Respectful. He’s mowing steadily through the pile of eggs Grace put in front of him, and has the morning paper spread out on the table so he can read as he eats. Aside from his size, he looks like a suburban dad on a Sunday. Those big hands could be so gentle, and he, like her- like all of them- was making a conscious effort to control his powers these days. For Luther, that mainly meant lifting weights the size of refrigerators and going through the agility exercises Diego helped him plan out, but it also meant giving up his space juice packs and drinking out of ceramic mugs and actual glassware again, and watching those thick fingers navigate a mug handle was… interesting.

"Are you doing much today?" she asks him.

"Cataloguing moon rock samples,” he says, still looking at the newspaper. “How about you?”

“Nothing major,” she says, putting her coffee down. “Are they important moon rock samples?”

“Every sample is important in context,” Luther says, looking mildly offended, until he catches the look she’s giving him. He blinks. “But, I mean, if you had other plans, they could… wait?”

Allison very carefully doesn't fuck him right away. She could; she could have dragged him off to bed right then, leaving his eggs unfinished, and he wouldn't have minded. That's not what she's aiming for, though. It's probably pretty strange to be thinking it about her relationship with her brother who has the torso of a gorilla, but what she's aiming for is _normality_, or as close an approximation of it as she can realistically have.

Instead, she takes him on... not precisely dates, as he's still skittish about leaving the house, but she orchestrates time for them together, alone, that could only be construed as romantic. They cuddle and watch old movies on the tiny TV; they sit on the roof with a picnic and a telescope, and he tells her about the stars, and the things he learned while he was away. Neither of them can cook, but she arranges to have dinner delivered from a nice restaurant, and they eat it at a table and chairs Luther drags out into the courtyard, with candles, and wine, under a tree strung with golden lights. (Klaus's doing; Allison's not sure he's aware of what's happening between her and Luther, but he's been hanging lights and paper flowers and experimental knitting projects all over the house in some kind of reclamatory decorating effort, and the lights make everything glow.)

All it really needs to make it romantic-movie perfect is music, but everything romantic she could think of has violins in it, and, well.

Operation Seduce Luther In A Normal Person Way is going really well, she thinks, looking at him over dessert, but Operation Stop Thinking About Vanya and Rough Sex And Rough Sex With Vanya is still very much a work in progress. Vanya isn’t even around much lately- she comes to the weekly family dinner, but other than that, she’s busy with the orchestra, or her students- but it seems to Allison like she’s everywhere. Allison’s grateful, as she watches Luther finish the last bites of the cheesecake, that Vanya’s not around. The filthy images Allison’s brain conjures up, the _dreams_, make it hard to look Vanya in the eye, and harder still to focus on anything else.

Not tonight. She's going to focus on Luther. Normal, vanilla, biddable Luther.

They leave the dishes in the kitchen sink, and go upstairs together, giggly from the wine. Luther's got a big bed, now, a queen, crammed awkwardly into his bedroom; there are other rooms he could sleep in, but this one is _his_ room, with his posters and model airplanes, and Allison's room beside it. Standing up on tip-toes, Allison kisses him, one hand on his cheek, and he kisses her back like he's missed her.

At the thought, Allison's stomach clenches in a way that's not entirely fun, but she's not going to be distracted. She's going to have sex. Nice, ordinary sex with her brother-slash-boyfriend.

Taking him by the hand, she leads him to the bed, climbs into his lap, careful not to go too fast, and kisses him again. He's a pretty good kisser now- she taught him how she likes it, open-mouthed but not too wet, and he's a fast learner. He brushes her hair back from her neck, and presses damp kisses to her throat, under her jaw, making her squirm in his arms.

"Can I," he says, just beneath her ear. His fingers skate under the hem of her top. "I'd like to take your shirt off, please."

God. _Polite_. "You may," she murmurs demurely, and helps him slide it off and over her head. His poleaxed look at her lacy bra (pale blue, balconette, absolutely no support but totally worth it) makes her preen, rolling her shoulders back and lifting her head.

"You're so pretty," he says, voice cracking. His hands, so broad, come up to span her rib cage, and she has to kiss him again.

It takes some coaxing, but eventually she gets his shirt off, too, and runs her fingers through the coarse hair on his chest, feeling his heartbeat, the movement of his breath, the muscles tense beneath the skin. He's just so _big_. He always was, but now, like this, straddling his lap makes her thighs ache just a little, and the movement of his abs against her stomach is like tectonic plates shifting.

"Luther," she says. She feels… weird. They've done this before. Hell, in those first few weeks after the not-apocalypse, they'd fucked a lot, going from furtive, emotional fumbling through their clothes to what she'd thought of, then, as Real Sex- naked, lights on (just lamps, but still), penetration- and it had been good, hadn't it? She'd liked it. She loves him- that hasn't changed, but something still feels strange, and she's starting to worry it might be her.

Delayed onset trauma. Is it? She isn't scared. His touches, his kisses, are so soft and so solicitous. She was on top of him, like always, him shifting under her. Maybe that was it. Moving back off his lap with an apologetic little sound, she unzips her skirt and leaves it on the floor. He stares at her, hands flexing on his knees. "You can touch me," she says, taking his hand and moving it to her chest. "I want you to."

Luther swallows, hand cradling the swell of her breast. His palm is warm through the lace of her bra in a way that’s very nice, but abruptly not enough; she reaches around to unclasp it, and drops it on the floor, too. She has a moment of panic as she reaches out for her again, but no, the bite marks are definitely gone. She checked this morning, and with the size of his hands, they’d be covered, anyway. The skin of his palms is thick and rough on her bare skin, and she shivers, leaning into the touch.

Normally, she’d climb back onto his lap, and they’d make out and grope each other some more, until she managed to convince him to take his pants off, and then she’d guide his cock inside her- sometimes with her panties off, sometimes just pushed to the side- and ride him until they both came. It’s nice. More than nice, really, but it’s not what she wants now.

Allison sits down on the bed next to Luther, and starts unbuttoning his pants. He watches her do it, confused but willing, and lifts his hips obligingly when she undoes the fly and pulls them down, taking his boxers with them. If she were a better, more communicative partner, she would be asking him if this is what he wants, too, would be talking at all, but she doesn’t _want_ to talk. She’s done enough talking to Luther for the time being. She wiggles backwards on the bed, lying down with her head on the pillows, and pulls on his arm until he starts to get the idea. He moves very cautiously until he’s poised over her, holding himself up on one arm.

“Are you sure?” His face looms over hers, nervous but not, she doesn’t think, unhappy. “I’m… heavy.”

“Yeah,” she breathes. The heat of Luther's body in counterpoint to the cool, soft sheets underneath her makes her feel safe, cocooned, and he’s not even really on top of her yet. “Yeah, come on,” she says again, arching her back to press herself up against him. He shudders, erection hot against her thigh, and she reaches up to pull his face down to kiss him again.

God, she should hire herself out as a kissing coach. The sweep of his tongue over hers makes her tingle, and the way he alternates between shorter pecks and longer, deeper kisses, is straight out of her playbook, in a way she finds weirdly satisfying. He kisses like she does, except she has a little less stubble, which must be nice-

And just like that, she's picturing kissing Vanya. Luther seemingly interprets her groan of annoyance as a noise of pleasure, because he responds by nudging a muscular thigh between hers. It's good, the solidity of him, but in her head, her fingers are sliding through longer, softer hair, and the mouth against hers is sweeter, cleverer, more lush. Vanya probably bites, she thinks, and the thought of Vanya's sharp little teeth catching at her lip has her nipping at Luther's mouth impulsively.

"Ow," he says, pulling back. He doesn't sound upset, but she shrinks away anyway, ashamed of herself. "You never bit me before."

"Sorry," she says, face flushing. "I didn't mean to, I just. Sorry."

"No, it was nice," he says, looking pleased, if a bit perplexed. "Could you do it again, maybe?"

No, Allison wants to say. No, I've made it weird, and if I keep bringing my weird stuff into this I'm going to ruin it entirely. She doesn't say that, though. She takes his face in her hands, and sucks his lower lip into her mouth, biting down in tiny increments until he gasps, and releasing it with a wet pop. He moans, and kisses her back, harder this time, and there's a new edge of teeth to it that simultaneously heats her blood and makes her stomach roil.

Luther keeps his teeth to himself as he kisses down her throat and nuzzles between her breasts. He doesn't bite her there, and she very carefully does not ask him to, even when he licks and sucks at her nipples, and the phantom sensation of a deeper, stinging ache rises up inside her. To distract herself, she grabs the hand he's not holding himself up with, and guides it down to her crotch, where the lace of her panties is damp.

Sitting back on his heels, Luther hooks his thumbs into her underwear and pulls them down. He's trimmed his nails; they scrape her hips, unsatisfyingly blunt, but she's grateful for it when his fingers trail over her labia, and even more so when one dips between them to rub over her entrance. "You're so wet," he murmurs.

_You’re so wet,_ echoes a voice in Allison’s head, _God, what a slut_. Her hips jerk up into Luther’s hands, and she can feel blood rising to her cheeks. Oh, no no no. No. She’s been doing so well, aside from the biting; she can’t start getting off to imaginary dirty talk now. Luther is right here, and if she focuses on that, she can keep her brain quiet long enough to enjoy herself. “That’s the idea,” she says, and he laughs, a sweet, guileless sound.

“I’m gonna,” he says, pushing the tip of his finger into her cunt with agonising care.

“Yes,” Allison says. It takes a lot of self-control to not hump his hand to get him deeper. He gives his wrist a little twist, and the big knuckle pops inside, setting her shivering.

“Are you okay?” he asks, face earnest. “I’m not hurting you, am I?”

“I am _great_,” she says, hips tilting. “Please, can you- more?”

Luther’s brow wrinkles a little, but he obliges, pumping his finger into her a little bit faster. God, Allison’s missed this. She hasn’t had anything inside her since... well, since, worried in the back of her head that penetration might unlock more troublesome memories, and his hands are so _big_. “Allison,” he says, voice low.

“Luther,” she says, running her hands up his arms. “Give me another one.”

“Already? You’re still pretty tight,” he says, twisting his wrist again.

“Yes, please,” she says breathlessly. “I want you to fuck me, and you haven’t gotten any smaller since last time, have you?”

Blushing bright pink, Luther nudges his middle finger in alongside his index. He wasn’t wrong about her still being tight- the stretch makes her feel like her entire skin is a size or two too small, and she has to plant her feet and bear down to take his knuckles into her- but she isn’t wrong about his cock, either.

(Whatever Sir Reginald gave him to make him… like he is… seems to have left his lower half intact, as he assures her it was always this big. “Aren’t they all like this?” he’d asked, seeing her face when she saw his dick hard for the first time.

“No,” she’d replied, frankly. “No, most of the ones I’ve seen I could close my fingers around.”)

“You’re beautiful,” he says, in that earnest tone that makes Allison want to cover his mouth. “Allison, you’re so beautiful.” He kisses her breasts again, then her belly, and starts shuffling backwards on the bed, shifting his fingers inside her. “I can, with my mouth- do you want me to?”

“No, don’t,” she says, sharper than she means to. Seeing his hurt expression, she touches his cheek gently, and coaxes him up so his body hovers over hers again. “I like that, but right now I want this.” Running her hands down his chest, she takes his cock between her palms and gives it a gentle stroke. It pulses, hot and urgent, and he makes a soft, punched-out sound into her ear.

God, what is wrong with her? What sexually active person in their right mind turns down oral sex from a willing partner? She knows exactly what’s wrong with her; she’s worried, understandably, that the shadow image of Vanya’s face between her legs, the thing she’s been getting off to for weeks, will loom up in her brain if she lets him go down on her. Although, she thinks, with a guilty throb, Vanya’s probably better at it than Luther is. He’s enthusiastic, but Vanya’s dated women before, and it’s easy to imagine how her clever mouth would feel, precise where Luther's is sloppy.

Stop. Stop thinking about that. She’s got to _focus_.

Allison tries to ground herself by paying attention to how Luther’s body feels against hers as he leans over to the nightstand to fumble for a condom, but it’s difficult. The sensation of his fingers bending inside her when he pulled them out had sent an eerie shiver up her spine, and his breath in her ear and the warmth of his skin aren’t as distracting as she’d hoped. She kisses his neck, and cants her hips up to let him slide inside her.

“Fuck,” she chokes out. Even as wet as she is, his cock is big, and she really should have let him finger her a little bit longer. It feels _huge_; when she’s on top of him, she’s in control of how deep inside her he can get, but like this, with his knees spreading her thighs open, all she can really do is lie there and take it. “Fuck, Luther,” she gasps, squeezing around him.

“Allison,” he moans. “Oh, fuck, Allison, you feel so good.”

“You- you too,” she pants. Being pinned like this, being opened up like this, feels electric. Her arms come up around his neck, holding on, and when he balances himself on his knees and starts thrusting, she finds herself all but sobbing with just how good it feels.

Did it feel like this, when her mystery lover fucked her? Did she sob and writhe then, too?

The truly shitty thing is, thoughts like that don't stop her now. If anything, it winds her up even more to imagine what it felt like. His dick can't have been as big as Luther's; she'd been stretched and sore the next day, but she hadn't felt it this deep inside. He must have fucked her hard, much harder than this. Luther's shallow, jerky thrusts are evening out into longer, smoother strokes- it never does take him long to get good at physical things- and the pinching strain is all gone, now. She's so wet, she can feel slick dripping down her ass crack.

_Slut_, hisses that voice in her head. _Look at you, you're soaked. What would all your adoring fans say, if they saw you like this?_

Her eyes fly open.

_What would your fans say?_ Was that real, or her own ego playing tricks? The idea that she might have been targeted, that it might have been personal, is too much to process while she's busy getting fucked. She clings harder to Luther's neck and tries to relax into it, but when she clings, he clings, and his careful control over his strength is crumbling as he gets closer to his peak. Still propped up on one thick arm, he strokes down her side and slides his free hand under her hip, pulling her up off the bed and changing the angle to one that sends sparks up her spine.

Allison gasps, yanked off balance; above her, Luther lets out a deep groan, and fucks into her just this side of rough, his big hands clenching. The twin shocks of pain, his cock inside her and his hand gripping her hip, hard enough to bruise, send her over the edge, and she comes, muffling a shriek into his shoulder, cunt pulsing in time to her heartbeat. The pressure of her orgasm sets his off, too, and he shudders above and around her, fucking her through it.

By the time he's starting to get soft, they're both shaking. He pulls out, murmuring soothingly at her whimper, and rolls onto his side. For a while, they just lie together, panting.

"Wow," says Luther, once he has his breath back. "We should break up more often."

"We didn't break up," Allison protests. "We took a break. That's not the same thing."

"Whatever it was, we should do more of it. Wow," he says again, and he drops a kiss on her sweaty temple.

A quasi-hysterical giggle curls up her throat, but she stifles it before it comes out. What could she say? 'Sexual assault turned my brain inside out'? 'Your dick was great, but I liked it even better when you hurt me'? 'Apparently I'm a bisexual masochist now, on top of the incest fetish'?

"Yeah," she says, curling against his shoulder. "Wow."

*

Sex with Luther should have fixed her. She's certainly jerking off less. Having gone thirty years without sex has given Luther seemingly inexhaustible stamina; the only thing slowing down is his shyness about asking for it.

Allison's not fixed, though. Far from it. She still comes like a fountain when Luther hurts her, she still finds herself thinking about… weird stuff, and she's still, still, thinking about Vanya. Displacement, probably. That’s what her therapist would say. Her brain latched onto the nearest safe target in response to trauma, and who’s less threatening than mousey little Vanya?

Displacement doesn’t explain _how_ her brain’s latched onto Vanya, because surely if she wanted to not think about the traumatic experience, she’d have, y’know. Stopped thinking about it. Instead, her fantasies have, if anything, gotten more elaborate, and she can’t keep them contained to her private time. She thinks about them while she’s in bed with Luther, which makes her guts writhe with shame, but never fails to get her off. She’s starting to plan out _scenarios_: daydreamy soft-focus ones where she graciously accepts Vanya’s shy overtures, and then proceeds to blow her mind in bed; hot ones where she seduces Vanya, and then coaxes or goads Vanya into getting rough with her. There’s one particularly shameful one where she begs on her knees for Vanya to hurt her, only for Vanya to turn her down flat. She comes so hard to the thought of Vanya’s pitying sneer, she nearly snaps Luther’s dick off inside her.

And Vanya’s around more, lately, which is… nice? She’s started hanging around the house sometimes again, like she used to in those early weeks after the not-apocalypse. She stayed the night in one of the guest rooms last week, and it took every ounce of self-control Allison had to not turn up in her room in a lacy nightgown, like something out of a vampire movie.

“Hey, Luther,” she says, one quiet afternoon, while they’re lounging in a post-coital glow. Having introduced him to the joys of doggy style, she’s just come her brains out with her face in the pillows and her brain full of Vanya playing with her ass from behind, and she’s feeling, though physically very pleasant, a little fed up. “Have you ever thought about seeing other people?”

He props himself up on one enormous elbow. “Are you breaking up with me again?”

“I don’t mean taking a break,” she says. “I mean, if one of us was interested in someone else. Potentially. Like… as well as each other, not instead of.”

His brow wrinkles. “Is this that pollyanna thing Klaus was talking about the other day?”

“Polyamory, and yes.” Allison sits up, trying and failing to avoid putting her leg in the wet spot. “I love you, I really do, I just. There’s-”

“There’s someone else?” Luther looks at her with big, sad eyes. “Who is he?”

The noise Allison makes could technically be characterised as a laugh, but only just. It sounds more like a kettle boiling. “Well, see, that’s the thing.”

It takes Luther a while to grasp the concept of her, a woman, being interested in women, and longer still to grasp that wanting someone else doesn’t mean she doesn’t want him. Oddly enough, he doesn’t seem taken aback by it being Vanya; Allison doesn’t ask him why that is. Once he gets it, he’s supportive, though he does ask that she keep him informed of how it goes.

“Luther, you _horndog_,” says Allison, impressed.

“I didn’t mean it like that! I meant just in general,” he sputters, cheeks going pink. “Although, if you wanted to share details-”

Allison hits him with a pillow.

Only, she doesn’t know how to approach girls. She doesn’t even really know how to approach guys; they tend to come to her. She definitely doesn’t know how to approach _Vanya_, who can be... touchy. Eventually, after considering and discarding plans from flowers and chocolates to the vampire movie nightgown approach, she settles on calling her up and inviting her out for drinks. Keep it simple.

Vanya blinks up at her when she opens the door to her apartment. She looks a little sweaty and unkempt, dressed in a drab grey button-down and khakis, her hair coming loose from her ponytail. By comparison, Allison might be overdressed, in her dark-wash jeans, tight and high-waisted, chosen to show off her ass, and a cherry-red top that ties in front, which makes her tits look great.

“I was just about to shower,” Vanya says apologetically. “I must have lost track of time, sorry.”

"Don’t be. I’m early,” says Allison, breezing in. She puts her purse on the table, and sits down, crossing one leg over the other. She hadn’t intended it to be A Move, but Vanya’s eyes flick down to her thighs and back up to her face via her cleavage in a very satisfying way, and she can’t help but preen a bit. “Go, shower, I don’t mind waiting.”

“Uh, I, okay,” says Vanya. She stands by the door for a moment, then blinks again, and closes it. “I’ll just... go. And do that.”

Vanya backs out of the room. Allison hears her mutter something to herself, then muffled noises of her moving around in her bedroom. Finally, doors opening and closing, and the sound of the shower starting up.

Allison stands up again, and tiptoes into Vanya’s bedroom.

Okay, it’s definitely creepy to do this. She was already edging over the creepy line when she decided hitting on her sister was on the cards, but snooping around in her sister’s bedroom is _vaulting_ over the line with a running start. She just doesn’t… know Vanya, not really. Vanya’s hard to get to know. Oh, they talk, they have drinks, they roll their eyes at Diego at family dinner, but Vanya’s always been so closed-off, so self-effacing. She protects herself. Bedrooms say a lot about who a person really is, and Allison just wants to get a peek under Vanya’s defenses before she makes her move.

At first, she’s disappointed by what she finds. Vanya’s bedroom is as neutral and schlubby at first glance as the rest of the apartment; white walls, grey curtains, a blue bedspread on a worn wooden bed frame, mismatched wardrobe and dresser and bedside drawers. There’s a lamp on the bedside table, and a rug on the floor.

When she looks closer, though, little details come to her. The curtains and the bedspread and the shade on the lamp aren't the same colour, but they tone together, and with the late afternoon sun coming in through the window, the effect against the mixed woods of the furniture is... nice. The rug is one of those multi-coloured ones, crocheted out of strips of rags. Allison wonders where she got it. Kicking her flats off, she sits down on the edge of the bed, and scrunches her toes against it, feeling the soft fabric under her soles.

Vanya doesn't have a vanity, though there is a mirror over her dresser, with a little spread of things in front of it- hairbrushes, lotion, an old jelly jar full of hair ties- and some postcards and Polaroid pictures stuck in the edges of the frame. On her bedside chest of drawers, there are a couple of novels, an empty water glass, and a picture in a frame. Allison picks it up. It's a photo of all of them together, taken in the foyer of the Academy; Luther, sitting the stairs, with Allison, Diego, Five, Vanya, Klaus, and Ben, too, shimmering blue and a little translucent, standing around him. Allison remembers Grace taking it, shortly after the averted apocalypse. When they'd come home and told her what happened, she'd listened very patiently. The next day, she and Diego had gone out, and come home with, among other things, a shiny new camera. "If we have a chance to do things over," she'd said, herding them into frame, "I think we should take the opportunity to make some nice new memories."

It's the only photo of all of them together since they were kids. It might be the only one they've ever taken as a group that wasn't a publicity shot, and definitely the first to include Vanya. Diego had a big print of it framed for Grace, who hung it in the front hall; Allison hadn't known Vanya had a copy of it, but seeing it here, kept close, kindles a bloom of warmth in her chest.

She puts the photo frame back down on the table, being careful to put it back at the same angle, and trails her fingers over the front of the drawers. She _really_ shouldn't. It would be really, really creepy. As quietly as she can, she slides the top drawer open.

Carefully, carefully, she paws through the items inside. Another bottle of lotion, an empty notebook, pens, chapstick, tampons, an unopened box of condoms; no great insights there. The drawer is deep, and she has to move delicately to stop things rattling around. Confident that she hasn't left anything too out of place, she closes the drawer softly, and opens the next one. Bingo- a magic wand vibrator, just like Allison's, with the cord coiled up under it. A half-empty bottle of lube, not a brand Allison recognises. Several dildos, in an assortment of colours, stored in clear plastic tubes; a weird stubby silicone... thing, with a thinner base and a T-shaped handle, and, at the back, a tangle of black nylon webbing that, upon examination, turns out to be a strap-on harness. Just looking at it makes Allison's face flush and her mind race.

Folding the harness back up, she pushes it back into the drawer. Weirdly, this drawer is shallower on the inside than the top one. Allison, suspicious, pokes around a little more, until her fingernail catches on a groove in the wood, and finds that the base of the drawer lifts up to reveal a hidden section underneath. In it, there's a brown paper bag, folded over, an unmarked bottle of round white pills, and a very familiar pair of panties.

She picks up the underwear between her thumb and forefinger. They're definitely hers; dark plum cotton with a lace trim. They're a little dustier than the last time she saw them, when she got dressed to go out to Yay Sisters drinks with Vanya. It doesn't look like they've been washed.

Guts twisting, she puts the panties beside her, and fishes out the brown paper bag. It's a little crumpled, like it's been handled repeatedly. She shouldn't look- she's long since gone too far - but she can't help herself. She opens the bag, and pulls out what's inside.

Photos. Ten Polaroid photos, with plain white borders. The top one shows a woman sprawled out on Vanya's ratty couch, with her skirt pulled up around her hips, her shirt unbuttoned, and her bra unclasped.

It's Allison.

She puts the picture down on the bed, and looks at the next one. In this one, her panties have been pulled off, and her knees have been spread, so her pussy is visible. In the next, some time has elapsed; there are bite marks on her tits, fresh and lurid, and a slim white hand is pushing into her cunt, four fingers, the thumb delicately tucked. They're all pictures of Allison, drugged, half-naked, in the process of being fucked. Of being _raped_.

Allison stares at the photo she's landed on. It's a slightly blurry shot, taken from above, of a woman's belly between Allison's spread legs, showing the top edge of a strap-on harness, and the base of a bright blue dildo peeping out where the rest of it is crammed up Allison's ass. Her face isn't visible, but it doesn't have to be.

A hundred little clues drop into place in Allison's head, all at once. She can see, in her mind's eye, Vanya's smug little smile that morning; how she'd looked at Allison, then, and how she's avoided Allison's gaze since. God, she's been so _stupid_. Vanya doesn't remember the guy, because there was no guy. Just Vanya, and one of these little white pills, and Allison, defenseless and unsuspecting.

She spreads the photos out on the bed beside her, two rows of five, In rough chronological order. Vanya was thorough, both in fucking her and in documenting the process. No wonder Allison's cunt had ached- she'd had Vanya's _whole fist_ inside her, at one point, and it doesn't look like she was gentle about it.

Had it been about sex, for Vanya? She couldn't have known Allison wanted her, since Allison hadn't known, then. Or was Allison not wanting it the point? Was it just about power, about humiliation? 

_Does_ Allison want Vanya? Her head swims. With the evidence of what happened to her, what Vanya did to her, spread out in front of her like this, it's impossible to tell which of Allison's filthy new fantasies are fantasies, and which are memories. She'd thought her brain was being kind, trying to distract her, but instead it's been replaying, expanding on, reinterpreting what was done to her unresisting body, and she's been _jerking off to it_.

_”You fucking love this,”_ says the memory of Vanya in her head. _“Look at you, you’re dripping down my wrist. Have you been a desperate, needy slut this whole time?”_

In the bathroom, the shower shuts off.

Maybe Vanya was right. Maybe she is a desperate slut, because looking down at these photos, piecing together what happened to her (what Vanya _did_ to her), she’s so wet she can feel her panties sticking to her.

She could take the photos and go straight to the police station. She could confront Vanya with them, force her to apologise. She could- she could rumor her, even; rumor her into confessing, into moving to Alaska and never showing her face in this city again, into… anything.

She’d promised herself she’d stopped doing that.

Methodically, Allison stacks the photos back into a neat pile, and slips them back into their brown paper bag. She puts the bag back into the false bottom of the drawer, and slips the bottle of pills into her jeans pocket.

When Vanya emerges, fully dressed, with her hair still damp, Allison's sitting at the kitchen table. She smiles up at Vanya. "Ready?" she asks, brightly.

"Yeah," says Vanya, smiling back, shyly. "I’m ready."


End file.
